


then you have done a braver thing

by lanyon



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Unrequited Love, clint's haiku reports, erin's haiku comment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows that the cavalry will come and that they’ll probably be too late because he is not the cavalry and he accepts that he has never inspired the same heroics that the Avengers have inspired in him. </p><p>It is okay. He tells himself that it is okay. He has been fortunate and he has seen this coming. Months ago, in Arkhangelsk, when he was held for ten days before he was successfully extracted (provided success is not measured by blood loss), he knew that HYDRA were closing in on the same artifact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	then you have done a braver thing

Clint doesn’t understand why an autopsy is necessary. None of them do. There’s a bullet hole in his forehead, just over his right eye. He’d have done a better job, he thinks. Dead centre because everyone has a bullseye.

 

It’s protocol, though. There’ll be an autopsy and a funeral and his family, if he even has any, will get a flag. Clint doesn’t even know if he has any family. It seems like the sort of thing he should know but even Natasha is shrugging and Fury’s saying nothing.

 

None of it changes the fact that Phil Coulson is dead. It was in the line of duty but there was no other way for Coulson to die.

 

.

 

He is always impeccably dressed. That’s what Clint notices which is weird, because it’s kind of a gay thing to notice, and it’s not that Clint doesn’t appreciate the allure of men because they are plenty alluring, but it seems strange that Dolce and Gabbana should be a defining feature. And, no, Clint’s not practiced in identifying fashion labels through his scope but he did once see Coulson’s suit hanging up in the locker room.

 

He also notices that Coulson is unfailingly polite with subordinates, even subordinates who give lip and think that protocol is a dirty word. He notices that he doesn’t smile much and that he’s slightly awkward when it comes to casual conversation but he’s also the one man that Fury trusts implicitly and that’s enough for Clint to respect the man. He just seldom demonstrates that respect.

 

To be fair, Coulson doesn’t seem to mind.

 

.

 

Coulson could probably do without spending his weekends at the Avenger Mansion but it’s all part of the job. He brings his laptop and some blank report forms in the vain hope that he might be able to corner Stark and Barton and get them to dot some additional _i_ ’s and cross a few _t_ ’s and maybe sort out the rest of the alphabet too. He can’t remember the last time either of them submitted a report in entirety. Stark seems to have an allergy to paperwork and Clint thinks it’s funny to submit Haikus on scrap paper.

 

_There was a villain_

_I hid up in the ceiling_

_And shot his kneecap._

Coulson will never admit that it is amusing or that he did actually smile but if a SHIELD agent smiles in his office and no one’s around to see it, it never happened.

 

Today, the Mansion is eerily quiet. It’s noon so they should all be out of bed. Banner’s probably in his lab and, hopefully, Tony’s in his workshop (and never the twain shall meet, or there’ll be explosions and Tony will break his shit laughing when Bruce causes major structural damage). Coulson knows that Natasha is on recon in Alaska because she makes regular contact and files timely reports and is, generally, exemplary. Thor is in New Mexico with Dr Foster and Darcy, which leaves Clint.

 

Clint, who’s pressed up into the corner of the room, back against the ceiling and one foot jammed against the door-frame, with the other resting back against the wall, ready to launch. Coulson ducks and Clint sails harmlessly over his head, ducking and rolling. He gets a perfect 10 for the landing, Coulson thinks, even if it’s a shame about the execution. When Clint stands up, Coulson hands him the file folder.

 

Clint looks rather disgruntled as he takes it. “It’s got my name on it, Coulson. Why does it have my name on it?”

 

“So illiteracy isn’t what’s keeping you from completing them on time. I’ll have to tell Sitwell he was way off.”  
  
“Ouch, Coulson. That _hurt_.” Clint holds his hand over his heart, as though Coulson has anything like that perfect an aim.

 

Coulson taps him on the shoulder with the other folder, the one marked _Iron Man_ , and steps past him, towards the door.

 

“I can’t believe there’s _homework_.”

 

“Get it done by Monday morning and you’ll get a gold star,” says Coulson, already walking away, because walking away is getting much easier with time.

 

.

 

There should be context or a reason but Coulson has no reason. If love is blind, it makes no fucking sense that it should fixate on someone like Hawkeye who can probably see a ladybug moving on a blade of grass in a garden half a mile away. Coulson prefers to think of it as lust, as something purely physical.

  
It’s easy to think that it’s purely physical when he’s in the shower in his own apartment and the water’s running to steam and the air is heavy and there’s shower gel, thick and sticky on his fingers, and his fingers are around his cock and there’s only one name on his lips (but he never gives breath or sound to it).

 

.

 

The Avengers probably aren’t supposed to get snowed in. Tony probably could find a way to get them out of there. Preferably one that doesn’t consist of lighting a fire under Bruce because Bruce has a broken arm and they’re not quite sure how the Hulk would deal with an owie of broken bone proportions.

They’re in the Arctic and Steve isn’t going to pretend to be happy about it because the last time he got stuck here, it was for seventy years. Thor definitely isn’t pretending to be happy about it because there aren’t even any Ice Giants to break the monotony.

 

They’re not entirely sure whose super-villainous plan this was but, either way, there was an inexplicable avalanche and Clint only just got in off the roof before it was buried by a metric shit ton of snow.

 

So that’s why they’re all huddled around a fire while Tony tries to get the tech working again so that they can radio for help. Clint wants to send up a flare. He’s sure Tony could fashion some projectile of that nature but Tony’s refusing because he’s a spoilsport.

 

Natasha and Tony are bickering because he’s getting distracted and thinks he could probably construct some kind of robot to burrow its way out of here but it probably wouldn’t get much further and that’d just leave them snowed in with a useless yard ornament out front.

 

They’ve been here for twenty hours now. Clint is bored. SHIELD safe houses, particularly those in the Arctic, are dens of utter tedium and Natasha’s not sharing whatever’s in her hip flask with anyone but Bruce. Clint feels slighted.

 

“Is this because I never call, Natasha?”

 

Natasha makes a rude gesture and says something to Bruce in Russian and Bruce cracks up. The good news it that there is nothing green-hued about Bruce’s skin so clearly weapons-grade vodka has anti-Hulk properties. It’s medicinal. Clint gets that. But he still wants some.

 

He gets up for the eighth time in ten minutes and Tony glares at him and even Steve looks a little edgy.

 

He stops dead on his third circuit of the room and tilts his head to the side. “Did anyone hear that?”

 

Tony’s jaw drops. “I do, Hawkeye. I totally do.” He scowls. “It’s the sound of fifty feet of snow weighing down on us.”

 

It’s one of those occasions when Clint is right, though, and Tony Stark is wrong and he’s never, ever going to let him forget it except that there’s an almighty crash and then the door bursts inwards and Agent Coulson’s standing there, or something approximately Agent Coulson-shaped, wearing bulky winter clothes and holding a motherfucking chainsaw.

  
Even Stark has to admit that’s pretty ninja.

 

.

 

There’s a two-week period where no one sees Coulson. Everyone assumes he’s on some Fury-appointed mission.

 

They don’t expect to see him at a meeting, far too pale and limping rather heavily. They talk about it that evening and try to figure out what happened. The suggestions range from the sublime to the ridiculous. Tony says that he got caught in Black Friday in Macy’s and Natasha says he was assigned to some Presidential protection detail and Clint says it’s none of their business but he thinks Coulson’s been punching out HYDRA goons.

 

The next morning, Coulson stops in with file folders, labeled _Hawkeye_ and _Iron Man_ and tells Clint that the Haikus have to stop. He’s not smiling this time.

 

.

 

The question will arise as to whether Coulson knows he’s going to die.

 

.

 

Tony is not a fan of abduction. He’s not a fan of Afghanistan. When he and Clint find themselves there, Tony doesn’t shake apart because Coulson gets them out.

 

They’re not quite sure how he does it and the subsequent mission reports are so highly classified that they might as well not exist.

 

.

 

No one ever questions Coulson’s motives. He supposes it’s for the best. This has been his greatest achievement; blending into the surroundings so that he’s just another suit. Oh, everyone at SHIELD has seen the CCTV footage from the gas station on New Mexico all those years ago. They’ve heard about Peru and some of them were there for the hostage situation in Haiti.

 

Everyone knows that Phil Coulson is one of the best agents in SHIELD and that he’s only a superpower away from being an Avenger himself. He spends most of his time divided between SHIELD and the Avenger Mansion and traveling between the two.

 

His apartment is small and cramped and in the West Village but he’s never there so it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t get much sunlight. He could certainly afford something nicer but there seems little point. He doesn’t socialise much because it makes him feel a little uncomfortable but, occasionally, the Avengers drag him to a bar and he nurses a single pint of pale ale and sits at the bar and, usually, Steve joins him.

 

Sometimes, Coulson thinks Steve knows where his gaze most often travels.

 

.

 

There’s one occasion on which Coulson gets properly drunk. It’s been a long week and there was a difficult extraction involving Hawkeye and the Widow in Darkhan and no one ever sees the pattern. No one ever sees that it’s always Hawkeye.

 

He’s leaning against the wall outside the bar, taking great gulps of air as he tries to sober up, when the man himself stumbles out.

 

“Coulson!” Clint sounds surprised. “I thought you’d gone home _hours_ ago.”

 

Coulson is confused. He looks up the street and down the street. “I – _no_ –“ He wonders if it’s normal to be this tired or maybe it’s just that he’s fifty and running around after an elite force of assassins, super-soldiers, aliens and Starks and this damned man, the greatest marksman in the world, who can’t see what’s in front of him.

  
The thing is, Clint must be drunk too because he’s a little wobbly on his feet, though his eyes are bright and sharp.

 

“I’ll take you home,” Clint declares.

 

“No, ‘s –“ Clint’s hand closes on the front of Coulson’s shirt and Coulson doesn’t know how he got so close but he can feel Clint’s breath on his cheek and if he turns his head, just so, their lips brush. Clint’s eyes fly open but then his hand is around the back of Coulson’s neck and they’re kissing and Coulson’s pressed up against the wall.

 

They somehow make their way to Coulson’s and when Clint mumbles that it’s a nice place, Coulson knows that he’s lying because Clint’s not blind, though his eyes are closed and he’s walking Coulson backwards towards the bed.

 

Coulson’s considerably less drunk than he was but now it’s all skin and writhing and the muscles in Clint’s thighs as he drives into Coulson. There’s nothing tender in this and nothing affectionate about their teeth-clashing kisses, it’s just that they’re both alive and Coulson’s never sure how long that’s going to last and if this makes him a bad man, dragging his fingers down Clint’s back, enough to leave gouges and bruises, then he will be wicked. There’s not much that’s honest about this, either, but Coulson hasn’t the wherewithal to think about such things, because Clint’s forearms are resting either side of Coulson’s head, his fingers wrapped around Coulson’s wrists and he groans wordlessly when he comes. Coulson is so practised at not saying Clint’s name that he barely makes a sound, only sighing as his legs clamp tighter around Clint.

 

(And, in the morning, when Clint says that Coulson uses the same shower gel, Coulson is non-committal about the coincidence.)

 

.

 

Nothing really changes except that Clint rarely meets his gaze now and his backtalk is a split-second later than usual.

 

.

 

The end, when it comes, is unexpected. It is Clint and Coulson and they’re cornered and it’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or it’s Thelma and Louise except Clint’s going to get out of this alive.

 

Coulson steps out, hands in the air, and about fifteen guns are trained on him. He tells them he’s alone and the idiots believe him because they don’t train henchmen to do headcounts these days.

 

It is dark, he supposes, so maybe that’ll be their excuse when SHIELD comes storming in. They lead him away to a cellar and tie him to a wooden chair and it’s just like the uncomfortable seats he remembers from Sunday School because Phil Coulson used to have a life outside SHIELD and he used to have a family but he can’t really picture them anymore because at some point, after the Marines, SHIELD became his family, even if they’re a family who don’t know his birthday or that he’s desperately allergic to shellfish.

 

He knows that the cavalry will come and that they’ll probably be too late because he is not the cavalry and he accepts that he has never inspired the same heroics that the Avengers have inspired in him.

 

It is okay. He tells himself that it is okay. He has been fortunate and he has seen this coming. Months ago, in Arkhangelsk, when he was held for ten days before he was successfully extracted (provided success is not measured by blood loss), he knew that HYDRA were closing in on the same artifact.

 

He tests the ropes that bind his wrists but they are knotted tight and true. He exhales slowly and he can hear something in the distance. For the briefest of moments, his heart lifts, like this might be his reprieve or his reward. Clint must have gotten away and called it in and it doesn’t matter that he won’t look Coulson in the eye anymore.

 

The door opens. His heart doesn’t even have time to sink. It is quick, in the end, as he always hoped it would be.

 

**Author's Note:**

> +Title from John Donne's "The Undertaking" and dedicated entirely to Feelschat.


End file.
